My Very Inspired Museum Idea

 Hi! Remember me? I'm Anne Johnson, by golly, and today I applied for Medicare!

Time to start posting in large print, so I'll be able to see what I've written.

Just kidding! I'm hale and hearty, as fine a specimen of crone as you'll find anywhere.

On April 1 I went into Philadelphia to meet my daughter The Fair at the Macy's department store that's right across the street from City Hall. This Macy's is located in the flagship store for the John Wanamaker chain, which I think was local to Philly before it went out of business.

The building dates to a time when going to the department store was an Event. There are hand-tiled mosaics in the entryways, and there's a central atrium with an eagle statue. Above the statue on the second and third floors are the enormous pipes of a huge organ. There are still two organ recitals per day, with a real live person playing the music. In the atrium you can see all five floors of the building. These days the top two floors are dark.

We got there during the organ recital, and it was so beautiful it took my breath away. Prettier than a church, for sure.

But quickly I noticed that the store was almost empty of people. There were a few advanced senior citizens listening to the music, but otherwise it wasn't crowded at all. When Fair and I went to the third floor to look at linens and such, we were the only people on the entire floor. Literally the only customers, and one employee wandered by after we had been there an hour. It felt spooky, like we had stayed inside somehow after closing time.

Truly sad.

I began reminiscing to Fair about how department stores were when I was a kid. How you would dress up to go there, and how each department had multiple employees ready to help you with anything. How bustling the stores were. They had tea rooms and restroom attendants and managers that strolled around in fancy suits. So swanky!

As we headed out of the palatial old building, I descended into gloom. Macy's won't keep that store open forever, if no one shops there. Then what happens to all the mosaics, the organ, the eagle, the marble columns?

That's when I had my brainstorm. The whole thing could be a National Museum of American Retail!

Can you imagine a re-created department store circa 1940, with vintage clothes and sundries and appliances and toys? Docents dressed up like salespeople? And of course the organ recitals would go right on, as well as the Christmas displays the store always does on the holiday. This could be such a fun museum! Interactive, you know? A floor where kids could play with Lincoln Logs and jacks and hug teddy bears and put their feet in those measuring things for shoes. A maze of clothing racks to run through. And I don't know about you, but I would completely froth at the mouth over a display of 1940s-era formal wear.

The building is already there. It's already a department store. It's nine freakin' blocks from Independence Hall!

See what happens when you attain geezerhood, as I have? You start pining for the good ol' days of epic department stores, and you realize those days are bygone. So then, as your own bones would fit into many a museum at this point, you start to think of fabulous museum ideas.

Ah, me.

KEY CHANGE

How long has it been since I've written? No matter. I did a thing.

In New Jersey there are stray cats that live under the boardwalks along the shore. That is, until they come live with me! Behold my new feline, appropriately named Taffy!

Yes, she's goofy-looking, and yes, she climbs every level. She pushes stuff off on the floor and grabs whole chunks of food to drag away. And if we scold her, she says "Waddya mean I can't have spaghetti? Fuggedabbout it."

Taffy didn't look like this when we got her. She's put on a good pound, and her fur is fuller. She wants to know where I've stashed her surf board, and I don't have the heart to tell her she's now 55 miles from the beach.

Until we meet again, whenever that is, I remain,

Your correspondent from the cobwebbed corners,

Anne Johnson

Passing the Torch

It's not like I'll never write again. It's not like I'm going to stop entertaining you. But a certain apple hasn't fallen far from the tree, so now I have help!

Here's the thing to read today instead of Anne.

Young, hip, and a timely bit of self-help!

Sweet, Sweet Lil BUB

I'm having trouble with this site being linked to some raunchy websites, but what can I do? I have no idea how the Internet works. Over the years I've written less about sex than any other topic, but I guess there are people out there who really do want to hook up with deities. More power to those people. They are not me.

I'm just going to put my two cents in about the death last week of Lil BUB. If you are a cat-lover like me, you no doubt wept, like me, when you saw on Facebook or Instagram that she passed in her sleep after a battle with bone infection. She was eight years old, which to me is phenomenal, considering how wacky she looked.

Maybe in ordinary circumstances I would have been mildly amused by BUB. But over the last three years I have sought her out often as an antidote to the times we live in. I know her owner made bank on her, and I don't fault him for a second. She raised lots of money for homeless pets. And she was so cute. You'll never see her in pessimistic memes like Grumpy Cat. She'll always be a special lil waif, destined for an early departure from this vale of tears until a kind man took her in.

I don't know about you, but I felt like lil BUB was my cat-away-from-home. I have followed her on every platform, although I never went out of my way to meet her. She seemed to have a cheerful personality ... and those videos of her slurping her food ... (her teeth never came in) ... well, has there ever been any feline content more adorable?

BUB got an obituary in the New York Times, that venerable publication that I read every Sunday. Glad to know that she was important enough that her passing was duly noted. I will miss the new photos of her but always look at the archives. As for purchasing BUB merchandise, I already have it. The Heir gave me a BUB calendar last year for Yule. I have literally looked at BUB every day this year.

So, lil BUB, what a cat you were! Trundle off now to the Summer Lands, and say hello to my Alpha. And my Beta. And Ozzie. And Dusty. And all my foster kittens who didn't make it. You made Trump World slightly more bearable. No mean feat.

Cat Blogging Keeps Me Sane

Now there's an innovative blog post title, don't you think???

I'm still trying to wrap my head around the fact that so many state legislatures have so many white men who can make laws that literally rob people of their essential bodily freedom. But pish tosh! What, me worry? Not when there are cats, cats, and more cats!

On Sunday morning I went to see my daughter The Fair. She lives in Philadelphia in a nice little row house with several roommates. And four cats.

EXHIBIT A: HOW THE FAIR SEES HERSELF

Like me, she is painfully aware that the only way to survive the Trump onslaught is to be surrounded by cats.

A few months ago, Fair adopted her first stand-alone cat. Her cat's name is Bijoux, and she is a pretty little thing! She's very tiny. And quite friendly. Even though Bijoux hardly knows me, she greeted me warmly.

EXHIBIT B: BIJOUX

Bijoux has a housemate named Fitz. Truth be told, I dig Fitz. He's very chill, a real bro, and also friendly to everyone. He and Bijoux exist in a kind of suspended warfare ... you know how cats are.

EXHIBIT C: FITZ

But the cats who really pull on my heartstrings at The Fair's residence are The Boys. Their names are X and XXX (I mean, who knows?), but we call them Rollo and Don Gato. These two rounders are what you would call neighborhood moochers. And it's their fault they don't have a cushy indoor gig, because The Fair tried bringing them indoors, and they went absolutely nuts. Their ears are snipped, which means they've been neutered by someone. For awhile, Rollo had on a collar with a little tag that said "Adopt Me." But he must have ditched it, because he just is an outdoor kinda guy.

Don Gato has one fang, which I guess is why he's so thin. It's painful to watch him eat. But he's one of those vocal fellows who will sing you an aria. I like that in a feline.

EXHIBIT D: THE BOYS

These two sure don't look like they've got a tough life, do they?

As it turns out, Fair was propping them up pretty good for awhile, but she discovered they have a feeding station in the neighborhood. I guess this is why they don't want to make the leap to rowhouse living. But when they hear Fair in her yard, they come strolling in, looking for a hand-out. She can pet them, but they were wary of me.

It's nice to see my Fair surrounded with cats. Somehow they seem like a bulwark against all the madness raining from the sky. There are Goddesses aplenty who look out for cat-lovers, and I can only hope that one or many of those deities are protecting my Fair.

To conclude this sermon, I would like to say farewell to Grumpy Cat. May she have found the Summer Lands. I won't miss her, because she will live forever in meme land.

FINAL EXHIBIT: GRUMPY'S LAST MEME

Thank Goddess for cats!

My New Grand-Cat!

About three weeks ago, my area got hit by the Polar Vortex, which is basically a big swath of super-cold air. It was so cold that schools were called off, and I got to stay home by the fire.

But there was a little kitty who wasn't so lucky. She was thrown out of a car in Philadelphia, and then kicked to the curb, for good measure. In all that cold. Fortunately a cat lady saw it happen and convinced our local shelter to take the kitty in.

My daughter The Fair and I first saw photos of the kitty and read her heartbreaking backstory on the Facebook page of the local shelter. And somehow we knew it was time.

Saturday morning the kitty went up for adoption. She was put up for adoption at 11:00 and adopted by Fair at noon. Don't you wish all homeless cats had such a quick turnaround ... and to a good home at that?

Yes, she is a white cat who quickly covered Fair's black leggings in white cat hair. She can't be given a Greek alphabetic name, because she isn't mine. Therefore I believe she is about to be called Bijou.

The lady who rescued Bijou got the license plate of the car from which the cat was thrown. It turned out to be registered to an 87-year-old man. We think it's likely that Bijou belonged to this elderly person, and he passed away. She is extremely friendly, not a bit afraid of people or other cats. She was microchipped in 2014, meaning that she's probably about 6 years old.

Welcome to the family, Bijou!

Pity Poor Beta

Trigger alert: This post describes a sick kitty cat, including symptoms.



THE TRAGIC ORDEAL OF BETA CAT


Ordinarily you might be a tad annoyed if your cat relieved herself on one of your hoodies (albeit left on the floor all day). But if that hoodie had some wine-colored spots on it, you might look at it as a great way to find out your itty bitty kitty is ill.

Beta came to my back yard as a feral kitten, 16 years ago. She grew up feral and produced a fine litter of kittens before Olivia tamed her. We took the kittens to the shelter (they were adorable and adoptable), but we kept Beta. She's a plain Jane, getting grizzled with age.

EXHIBIT A: INSEPARABLE SINCE 2001

Long story short, I got home from work Thursday evening, and Beta was clearly sick. The vet gave me a 6:30 appointment.

(I'm sure you've noticed that even if a cat is on the Grim Reaper's doorstep, they can still fight going into that cat carrier.)

Off we went to the vet, and the first question they asked was, "Is she under stress?" Apparently stress causes the scary illness she had developed.

I said, "I can't think of anything that's out of the ordinary in our house or our routine." And there isn't. Beta gets her cans and her cot, she pushes Gamma around even though he's literally three times her size, and she is adored by her people.

Beta's treatment at the vet took quite awhile. We were there two hours -- so you can imagine the $$$$$.

At the end, as I was whipping out the Care Credit card, the vet gave me a flyer about Beta's illness.

When I got home, I read the flyer.

One cause of stress listed is construction outside.

Two years ago, my neighbors across the street sold their house to a developer who  plans to build two houses on the lot. Maybe I've mentioned this before. Well, nothing at all happened for the first 18 months, but just last month a gigantic machine arrived and demolished the 90-year-old house in three hours' time. Since then the builders have poured a foundation, and the property is a mad mess.

One day about three weeks ago, I saw Beta cross the road to the construction site. (She would never cotton being an indoor cat ... I didn't even try.)

It never occurred to me until I read that flyer: The property across the street is part of Beta's territory. There hasn't been another cat or dog on that lot for about six years. The place was probably even more inviting when the house stood empty and was the same as always. And now it's gone, replaced by huge mounds of dirt, piles of gravel, and noisy men with noisier machines.

Damn! It's causing me stress! Why wouldn't it stress poor Beta?

I feel like I ought to send the vet bill to the developer, but Mr. J disagrees. He thinks I should send it to the neighbor who sold the property in a hurry, knowing that a lovely old house and a two-car garage with a full apartment above it would be razed. Who does such a thing? Those people raised five kids in that house!

Anyway, someone should pay for poor little Beta. Who owes me money?


I'm still waiting to hear back from the vet about Beta's blood work, but I'm considering that a good sign.  She seems better today ... a little bit on the nod from the opiates, but she ate her vittles and purred while I told her not to worry, our house will not be demolished.

I'll keep you posted on her progress.

Tough Day in the Trenches for Decibel and Gamma

It's hard out there for a pet. We Northern Hemisphere humans struggle with seasonal lack of sunlight. Couldn't our pets feel the same?

I stayed home from work today because I feel crappy and worn out. But it's a good thing I asked for a substitute teacher on Thursday, because today I had to take Decibel the parrot to the vet.

Two years ago, Decibel had a disagreement with a squirrel on the small matter of ownership of the seed in Decibel's cage. Both parrot and squirrel emerged with injuries. Decibel injured her wing and needed $2000 + in vet care to shore her up.

So the other night when I saw blood on the floor beside Decibel's cage (and no cats with feathers in their mouths), I called the vet promptly. We got an appointment the next day.

It's a balmy 28 degrees out there with a stiff wind and some snow flurries. Just the day for a tropical bird to take an outing! Bundle up, Decibel!

When Decibel was a chick, she was real cool with standing on my hand and riding around on my shoulder. Then along came The Heir, and Decibel probably hit maturity, and Decibel started biting like a fiend. Just the other night she got me on the thumb, and OOOO WEEE! Felt like I'd shoved my digit in a hornets' nest.

To get Decibel into a pet carrier requires grabbing her with a bath towel. When she sees the towel coming, she knows what's about to happen and reacts accordingly. It's a merry chase sometimes, with much shredding of fabric and any unlucky fingers that peek out. Today was no different, except the destination wasn't the bathtub where she's showered. It was the vet.

Decibel's vet loves her to death. It's sickening. "Kissy kissy, birdy birdy, oh, LOOK at you Decibel! You look so GOOD! How's my sweetie?"

No chance of alienation of affection, though, because while the vet is cooing like a turtledove, she's also checking out Decibel's old injuries. This process elicits crabby, loud squawks from birdy birdy.

Long story short, Decibel's okay. She's got some anti-inflammatory medicine for good measure. She's back in her sunny spot, nursing her wounded pride and her sore wing.

Having returned Decibel to home and hearth, I turned my attention to the Xmas tree, which looked like it had spent the season out in some harsh desert, rather than my living room. Next year will be my last and final Xmas tree. These Jersey trees are cut before Halloween and shipped across the country, and they're dry as bones when we set them up.

Anyway, it's not terribly taxing to remove ornaments and lights, remove the tree from the stand, and place it at the curb for mulching by the borough of Snobville. Nor is it much of a chore to sweep up the ten pounds of needles shed in the process of removal.

But you'd have thought I was committing a cardinal sin.

My indoor cat, Gamma, had bonded with this tree. He saw this dry, prickly piece of foliage as his own personal forest. Shed needles be damned, Gamma had staked out a space in the corner behind the tree, from which he imagined the life of a rugged outdoors cat.

Gamma watched intently as I took the ornaments and lights off the tree. Then he stood in shocked disbelief as I dragged his forest out the front door. Then he paced the open space where the tree had been, batting petulantly at the snowdrift of fallen needles.

Finally, with one last piercing glance, he turned his back on me and gave in to his sorrows.

I've never owned a cat that didn't go outside. But I got Gamma from a shelter. He had always been an indoor cat, and frankly, he's a ten-pound sniveling wretch, afraid of his own shadow. The one time he did get out, he hid under broken glass, cowed to silence by the threats of the local outdoor feline community.

All in all, the only happy pet here at Chateau Johnson today is Beta, and judging by the way she's walking, her old arthritic joints aren't feeling up to snuff either.

It's hard out there for a pet.

Rent-a Cat

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Have you noticed how hard it is to make a living these days? I mean, really. I don't know about you, but I'm always on the lookout for a way to make money.

What do you think of Rent-a-Cat?

My daughter The Spare moved into an apartment in Center City, Philadelphia in June. The apartment is on the second floor in a townhouse. From the get-go she's had mice.

I don't have any problem personally with small rodents, but they are gross in their habits. I had them in my house before I got my cats. Hated to poison them, but, as I said: gross.

It's harder in a townhouse with shared walls. Spare put out poison, but it didn't seem to make a difference. And her roommate is terrified of mice.

Spare wanted to take one of our cats to her flat. I put the kibosh to that. Beta is an outdoor cat, and Gamma has anxiety issues.

Folks, for the first time it has paid off to volunteer. The pet shelter where I donate my time kindly lent me a hard-to-place kitty to take to Spare's apartment. Basically Spare is fostering this kitty, who simply cannot tolerate any others of her species.

I wish I had a photo of Spare, walking up the Philadelphia sidewalk with a cat carrier as the locals stared at her from outdoor bistro tables.

This is an experiment in rodent extermination. I don't know how it will go. I'm also more than a tad concerned that Spare will bond with the feline. Also not sure a cat will be able to deal with townhouse mice, and not sure how long it will take. I am sure that cat will catch mice, though. Even Gamma can do that, and he's a dim bulb.

But if it goes well, what a business opportunity! Rent a cat to deal with your mice, cave crickets, spiders, and bouncy balls! Flexible rates, choose from a wide variety of colors. No purebreds allowed, only nice, fresh, mature rescue cats with proven survival skills.

Can I get some investors?

Herding Cats

I stand guilty as charged of having a swollen ego. This time I think it might have gotten me in over my head.

It must have been eight years ago that I fostered a trio of kittens who were born behind a dumpster in Cherry Hill, New Jersey. The first kitten came into my nurture at about three weeks of age, and he was in pretty bad shape. Lucky thing I had some antibiotics on hand when I got him. Well, he's rocking on -- literally. He is the store cat at Woodstock Trading Company.

After I finished with that kitten, a similar kitten appeared the following spring in basically the same location. This one, too, I fostered. The staff at the store found him a happy home.

Yesterday I got a message from the owner of Woodstock Trading Company. The lady who adopted my foster kitten still has him, but she wants a companion for him ... and only a cat fostered by Anne will do. (emphasis mine)

Who among us is strong enough to stand up and say, "Oh, I have no magick where cats or anything else is concerned. Cats just have basic personalities; you can't mold them."

Oh no. Not me. I'm the original Cat Whisperer. You give me two dozen cats, I'll herd them neatly into rows. It's just my special touch, you know?

Like a blithering idiot, I called the shelter where I volunteer and asked for a foster kitten. Regular Gandalf, that's me. On Saturday I will receive an eight-week-old male kitten. Through my peerless magickal powers, I will turn this ordinary, nondescript feline into something really, really special. A cat fostered by Anne.

I did ask the shelter to choose for personality and not looks. Is that cheating?

One Damn Sturdy Tomcat

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where we lasted six days between hair-washes and only shampooed this morning because the supervisor was scheduled to come in for a pre-observation conference. Did I feel like washing my hair when it was six degrees outside, with two inches of new snow? Hell no!

But this sermon isn't about hair. It's about a tomcat that I asked Freya to look out for. She has been right on it!

This tomcat has been hanging around my neighborhood for at least two years. He's just a generic tabby, with that chunky tomcat face. Except that somehow the skin got pulled clean off the right side of his face, so now he's decidedly less chunky in the mug. It's a wicked bad injury, and I got some antibiotics from the cat lady at the PETCO, but this frisky tom wouldn't eat the food laced with the medicine.

Right there's a tip-off that Freya's got Her hands on this cat. If he's really and truly homeless and unloved, he would eat cat food with red pepper flakes on it.

Sweet Goddess. The tom pulls her chariot, I'm sure!

Anyway, to make a long sermon longer, yesterday the tom was having a trash talk extravaganza chummy chat with my trophy feline through the barrier of the basement window. This drives the trophy cat crazy, because it's boring in the house.

We've had the coldest winter in recent memory here, and snow was again in the forecast. So I put out a can of food for the tom, without the medicine. He ate it, but not like a starving cat eats ... more like a pampered pet nibbles daintily. Then he went away.

Awhile back I put a little shelter together for this interloper, out on my front porch. Other than the fact that it smells like tomcat, I had no evidence he was crawling in there to keep warm. (The neighbor feline, Mestopheles, was spied napping in it during the day.) But this morning, when I went out in the pre-dawn, six-degree cold to go to work, I saw a set of footprints in the new snow. They began near the shelter and proceeded down the porch stairs, down the sidewalk, and off into the distance. It seems the tom is indeed camping in his lean-to. At least occasionally.

Through all of our bitter cold, this intrepid puss has rocked on, with half his face pulled off. I can't tell you how many nights I've gone to sleep listening to the roar of the wind and imagining the critter slipping into mortal hypothermia. Oh, me of little faith! I petitioned Freya for her help, and She is caring for this cat.

On Freya's day next, I will have a dual-purpose party. Extra Chair, not surprisingly, wants a bit of the old home culture for Chinese New Year. So we'll eat hot pot, but I'm going to decorate everything in red and then set off some sparklers. This will honor Freya on Her day and perhaps bring a little holiday cheer to poor Chair, who had two weeks off for a meaningless holiday last month and now must work through her country's biggest fun time.

Hail Freya, the great not-so-bored Goddess!

Beta's diagnosis/ Anne gets a challenge

Beta has malignant cancer. We caught it before it hit her lymph nodes, but it's only a matter of time before the tumors return. Lady readers, please get your preventative appointments! Unlike Beta Cat, you would understand when the doctor came forward with your lab results. An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.

EXHIBIT A: GET YOUR YEARLY EXAM

But don't fret, readers (all three of you)! Beta's had a lovely life, with a few tough runs at the beginning, and occasional beat-ups by Alpha. There will be no more surgery for her. She'll live out her days in my little back yard, micing and moling and baby-bunnying. And sleeping all curled up with Spare.

Next week there will be a whole new and very difficult challenge for "The Gods Are Bored," and I hope you'll help me with it. I don't know what pantheon I get this from, but I feel deeply that the gods do not help us. We have to help ourselves. We have to sink or swim on our own, no matter how bad it gets. But this new challenge isn't something dangerous or desperate ... it's fun, fun, fun! So be prepared ... we are about to prove the power of a blog in a whole new arena. Who's with me?

Beta Bears the Burden

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" A sad note tonight: My cat Beta has breast cancer.

Around Christmas time, maybe a little bit earlier, Spare noticed that Beta had some lumps under her right limb. They've gotten bigger and badder since, and Beta is starting to slow down a little. So I took her to the vet, and he wants to operate.

I'm a farm girl at heart. I'm not one of these people who wails, "Oh, Doctor, keep my kitty alive at all costs!" I don't disrespect people who feel that way. I'm just not one of them. To me, being an animal is all about quality of life. If you're content and pain-free, if you can come and go at whim, and if you can keep your chin up around the other kitty cats, then okay. You're good to go. When you start feeling bad, then you're going to go to the Summerlands, quickly and painlessly.

Except in the case of Beta, the doctor says that with surgery she'll live to her normal life expectancy with no major further problems. The cancer might return, but it won't be so aggressive that I will have wasted my money.

Knowing how attached the Spare is to this kitty, I'll make the sacrifices to get the operation. Spare tamed Beta in the first place. (Beta was a feral teenage mom, living behind our garage.)

I'm sitting here wondering how I'm going to get Clavimox pills into Beta, and how she will recuperate from such major surgery. But I'm going to do it. As much for the Spare as for Beta. But I don't want to watch Beta waste away in less than a year (doctor's prognosis w/out the surgery).

The buzzards will have to wait for Beta. Off we go to a lighter note.

Beta is my second cat. The first and older one is Alpha. When we adopted Alpha, we had to promise that we would never get another cat, because Alpha doesn't play well with others. But Spare tamed Beta, and Beta was so plain I thought she'd never get adopted, so we kept her.

Alpha and Beta have never gotten along. "Barely tolerate" is the extent of it.

Sometime this winter, the glass panes broke in one of our basement windows. I've been waiting to get some money together (?!!?) to get the window fixed. Turns out this has to be a high priority.

Today the neighboring cat, lovingly known in this household as Mestopheles (a daily outside nemesis), decided to pay an indoor visit by way of the broken window. Mr. J. came in for a cup of coffee and found a three-cat ruckus in progress. You would think that Alpha and Beta would team up to repel the invader, but Mr. J. says it was more of a tag-team affair, with each cat for herself and all teeing off on one another. Decibel the Parrot, who served as referee, gave the match to Mestopheles. Nobody in my house gets along.

This sermon is basically about two things. First, take care of your health. If I had ignored Beta's lumps (given that she's only barely lost a fraction of her energy), she'd have been a goner. Now, her chances are good ... and I may even think of a creative fundraiser to finance her care. Second, look after those pesky home repairs. Or else.

Free Advice on How To Turn Your Cat into a Dog

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" In this post, we're determined to entertain the bored gods -- and you!

We all know the difference between dogs and cats. Dogs are slaves. Cats have slaves. And you're the slave! Aren't you sick of it? Want to turn the tables?

I, Anne Johnson, can give you a tip that will make your cats sit up and beg. They'll follow you around loyally. Heck, if you use it right, they'll fetch your newspaper and slippers. What I am about to reveal is a food item that turns ordinary house cats into groveling wretches. If you've lived with cats as long as I have, you're really ready to see them humbled.

This is Ninben brand Dried Shaved Bonito. I purchase mine at the convenient Korean grocery store in Cherry Hill, New Jersey.

Dried shaved bonito could better be described as fish flakes. Stinky fish flakes. Korean cooks use them as soup stock, and I can imagine that combined with water and vegetables, dried shaved bonito becomes somewhat more palatable. In the form you see here, however, the stuff smells like a pack of kippers left out too long on a sunny day.

Never mind what Ninben Dried Shaved Bonito smells like. You want your cats to make asses of themselves, don't you? Okay then. Go to the Asian grocery store, purchase a big bag of fish flakes, bring it home, hold your nose, and call Fluffy. She will swoon. Then she'll be your bitch for life. Wherever you take the stinky fish flakes, she will call home.

In this way, my daughter The Spare convinced our cat, Alpha, to be a nightly bed companion. Spare doesn't even need to put out a bowl of fish flakes anymore. Alpha just sits there every night, hoping Spare will deliver.

Don't be fooled by those expensive cans of "Kitty Caviar." You know what that is? Dried bonito flakes! Cheap as all that in any Asian grocery!

Yes, you can make your cat do stupid pet tricks if you offer bonito flakes as a reward. Nothing is too stupid if it leads to fish flakes. Trust me, this treat goes where catnip never can. It turns the proudest animal on the planet into a drooling, fawning toady. And since people don't suck up to us, our cats should. Shouldn't they?

As usual here at "The Gods Are Bored," this handy advice is offered completely free of charge. Are you loving us yet?

Wouldn't Work with People

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," where today the tables turned on us!

Not literally. I'm not lying under 75 pounds of varnished walnut.

What happened was this: Spare and I took a friend to the pet shelter where we volunteer. The friend wants to adopt a dog. A small, older dog who will enjoy city life and the company of two cats.

My daughters and I have fostered more than 60 kittens for this shelter. Usually when we enter the door, we're either picking up tiny waifs for a temporary stay at our home, or dropping off slightly larger, well-fed and healthy waifs for someone else to adopt.

As far as the pet shelter adoption process goes, I was totally in the dark, until today. My pets are all serendipitous acquisitions (except for Decibel the parrot -- my biggest mistake thus far in a long life). It was a whole new experience, walking into the familiar shelter in search of an animal to take home for good. And the shelter had a nice group of little dogs from which to choose. My friend liked two of them. I liked them both too. It's nice to know I'll get to see whichever one she winds up with.

As we played with the little dogs and sized them up, something occurred to me. Cats and dogs live with us for years, sometimes for a decade and a half. But when it comes to choosing them, we do so quickly. "I'll take that one, thanks. He's adorable!"

Funny part is, the ending is almost always happy. You walk into a pet shelter on any given day with your pet carrier, point to a kitty, bring it home, and for the next 14 years it sleeps peacefully at your feet every night and rubs your leg when you come home from work. It works just as well with a dog, if you know what size and mix you want. The first pooch you point to will adore you after the first bowl of Alpo.

Can you imagine it working this way with people?

Just imagine. You go to the people shelter, looking for a companion. The attendant brings out a man (or woman) meeting your age and size preferences. A quick perusal, an application fee, and out you walk with your new person!

Well, that's ridiculous, of course. We're the thinking species. We search and search for the perfect human companion. Some of us never find that person. Some of us go through a dozen rotten relationships before finding a decent partner.

To me this proves one thing beyond all doubt. Cats and dogs are superior to humans. On any given day, you can walk into any given pet shelter and cart home a fine companion who will bring you bounteous joy. Try doing that with Homo sapiens. Go ahead. I dare ya.

Love at first sight only works with shelter pets. Remember where you heard this, because some day I'm going to start charging a fee for such sound advice.

Image: Casey Jones, one of my favorite fosters.

Cat Show

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" I would love to chat with you today, but alas, there's no time. The cat show is in town!

Don't you just love a great cat show? Where else can you see painstakingly genetically engineered felines, groomed to the max, with their high ticket prices and their anal owners and their poofy, pimped cages?

Sometimes the gal I got my Alpha from sets up a booth at the cat show. She still has a picture of Alpha on her poster of rescued, hard-luck-story cats. As the story goes, Alpha's family moved away and just left her behind, outside, pregnant. By the time the rescue ladies got there, all but one of Alpha's kittens had died, and Alpha was near starved to death.

I believe this tale of woe. When we go on vacation, Alpha does not leave the house. Any other time, she comes and goes (never beyond our small back yard). Also she makes nice with anyone who comes in the door, even people who don't like cats. She single-pawedly won over my father-in-law, who had detested felines his whole life. Mr. Johnson about fainted when he came in the room and saw his dad with Alpha on his lap, petting her.

So off to the cat show I go! To look, not to buy. Not even to touch. Those crazy cat show contestants don't even want you to breathe on their precious quality merchandise. But where else can you see the wacky naked cats and Persians who look like they've been bashed in the face with a flat iron?

Meow! Ciao!


Image: No, they aren't show cats! They're a litter I fostered awhile back. Can't even remember their names, except the pink one was Pinkie.

The Very Model of a Modern Shrine

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Please remain seated and stay calm. That sound you hear is the twenty-first century, roaring full speed ahead, with misery and injustice for (almost) all!

When you feel that life is passing you by, with so much baffling new technology and such, one of the best things to do is retreat into ancient ways and do something like build a shrine in your back yard. Which I did. And it's a really wonderful shrine. I promise, the next time my daughter The Heir is home, I'll have her take some photos.

Just before The Heir went back to college, I set candles on all the levels of the shrine, and on the center stone, and lit them to the Four Quarters with the Druidic invocations. When I was finished, between the candle light and the iridescent marbles and crystals sprinkled liberally within, I had a thousand points of light. It was prettier than a bonfire and safer too. Or so I thought.

Enter my cat, Beta. (I have two cats, Alpha and Beta.) Beta was born behind the garage next door. There was no way I could ever make her an indoor cat. So she comes and goes as she pleases.

On the night I lit my shrine, she was pleased to check it out, not at an admiring distance, but up close and personal.

The candles were safely snuffed before this family could fulfill all the dire myths about pet torture that cling unjustly to Pagans everywhere.

Alas! How does one light a shrine with the proper glow if one can't shower the thing with candles?

This is the twenty-first century. For me, that's usually a pain in the neck. But where the Shrine of the Mists is concerned, it's a Goddess-send.

Some time ago, my daughter The Spare gave my daughter The Heir a little glo-in-the-dark plastic gnome with fiber optic innards. When turned on, this gnome changes color deep within, from rosy red to violet, with blue, turquoise, and green thrown in for variety. Best thing about this gnome, he isn't hot to the touch, and he can't singe cat hair.

Many things amuse the heck out of faeries. When I turned on this dime-store gnome and it started doing its glowy show on the Shrine of the Mists, the faeries burst from every nook and cranny and had a shindig of pre-Celtic proportions. They couldn't get enough of the plastic and fiber optic miracle gnome! So I let it rock on for about an hour.

The only downside to my very modern shrine light is that it requires batteries, and they're not terribly eco-friendly. But I'll do the right thing and take them to the proper disposal center. And hope they last through many a faerie party.

Modern can be marvelous sometimes.

The Pet Paradox

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" Meeeowww. Bow wow! SQWAAAAAAAK! ACK ACK ACK!!!!!

Ah, pets. What would we do without them?

I have two cats, Alpha and Beta. Alpha's getting up in years, so she moves slow and is non-obtrusive. Beta is in the prime of life. She's an ugly shorthaird rescue cat who lurks in my bedroom, waits for any sign of life from me in the morning, and leaps on me to be petted.

If you've ever had a cat, chances are you've experienced something like this.

EXHIBIT A: BETA

Saturday morning, I stirred just a little to get more comfortable just as morning gilded the skies. Beta pounced. Woke me from a justly deserved sleep-in. Woke Mr. Johnson too.

I said to Mr. Johnson, "I am so sick of this cat. We never asked for her, she just moved in. I am so tired of her waking me up every morning."

And with that, I shoved Beta off the bed rather more brusquely than usual.

Undaunted, she came leaping right back, demanding her massage. (She never tips.)

I said to Mr. Johnson, "If this cat just disappeared, I think I could live with it."

Later in the day, my daughter The Spare got into one of her rough-up-the-cat moods. To me, this was the only reason we adopted Beta. Alpha was getting too delicate for rough-up-the-cat.

Spare asked if she could rough up the cat. I said, "Go ahead, she's been waking me up. It's so annoying."

(For the record, rough-up-the-cat is not a violent, sadistic sport, but rather an over-enthusiastic teenaged "kissy kissy.")

So I heard all this kissy-kissy coming from the bedroom. And some "booga booga booga." And some "sweet lil' kitty kitty kitty." And I thought, "Beta has it coming to her."

That was Saturday. On Sunday morning, I woke up, and Beta did not pester me. I went downstairs for a cup of tea, and only Alpha greeted me. A quick check of the cat food indicated that Beta hadn't been chowing overnight. It was in the low 20s outside.

On the pretext of getting the newspaper, I went outside. If Beta had been out all night, just that much activity would have rousted her. No Beta.

An hour passed. Alpha hates Beta, but Alpha gets a little anxious when Beta's not around. I was starting to get anxious too. No Beta on a Sunday morning? Where could she be?

By and by I heard footsteps on the second floor. It was the Spare, headed straight for Facebook. I climbed the stairs and said to her, "Have you seen Beta?" And the Spare answered, "She's in my bedroom, sacked out in the clothes."

Sure enough, there was Beta, half asleep in that mess of girly stuff that every teenage room sports to the plimsol line.

I leaned down and examined her. Could the rough-up-the-cat have gone too far? Her eyes were half shut. She didn't purr when I petted her. Only after prodding did she get up and go downstairs. She ate. Then she disappeared again. A few hours later, I found her sunning herself on the back porch.

I gave her a massage. She purred. She was fine.

If you ask me what is most wacky about our species, I would say it's the relationship we have with our pets. We are not the only species that keeps pets. Race horses often perform better if they have a cat or goat in their stalls. Mother cats will raise baby rats. Dogs will parent ducklings. But we as humans stand alone in our consideration of pets as sacred.

One morning I'm heaping derision on my cat. The next morning I'm seeking her, anxious for her safety.

Convince me that I'm the only person who acts this way, and I'll give you my house.

Tomorrow we will explore the dark side of this pet paradox. It ain't always pretty, folks.

I'm Really It!

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," mounds of mirth for what it's worth! I'm your host, Anne Johnson, the "It Girl."

"It" because I've been tagged three times for the same meme. Y'all are too kind! My taggers are: Pom, Thalia, artist of the Bored Gods, and Aquila ka Hecate. Lovely Pagan bloggers all! Blessings to them.

I'm supposed to list six random things about myself.

1. I'm having deja vu at the moment.

2. I'm raising three foster kittens for the animal shelter. Two of them are polydactyl (six toed). See photo above and count for yourself.

3. I haven't been to Berkeley Springs since last February. But I'm still its Merlin.

4. My parrot, Decibel, is downstairs ripping something to shreds.

5. If you want to befriend me on Facebook and can't find me because of my name, add "Vultures" to your list of interests and then click on it. I'm the only person on Facebook who lists vultures as an interest. Ponder that for a moment. Maybe you don't want to be my friend.

6. My faeries are mad at me. They broke my printer and flattened a tire on my car. I need to gain back their favor by taking them on a lark.

I am supposed to tag six more people, but from looking around the old sidebar, most of you have already fulfilled this command, and the rest of you are more serious than that. I'll just ask The Hillbilly Fairy if she wants to do it, all nice and polite.

Any thoughts on pacifying faeries run amok?

FROM ANNE

HEART FOREVER IN BERKELEY SPRINGS

The Bad News ... The Good News

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," unsuccessfully trying to make it on niceness alone since 2004! Ah well, I'd rather be a little bit nice than be Donald Trump, and that's a natural fact.

The Bad News:

About three weeks ago I began substitute teaching at Snobville High School, where my daughter The Heir is a senior. I'm sort of in between long-term jobs at the Vo-Tech, and I need the dough. Snobville High doesn't pay as well as the Vo-Tech (and the lunches suck), but I can walk to work, which saves gasoline.

I guess all told I went to Snobville High six times. And there was my memorable morning with the Pre-Ks and their jar of marbles. That was Snobville Elementary (Truman C. Tewell, to be exact.)

Yesterday I subbed for the first time at an ultra-posh private Quaker school nearby. And when I got home from that, tired out as one can be after spending a day in a new place, I got a call from the substitute scheduler at Snobville School District.

It went something like this:

Snobville Scheduler: Ms. Johnson, can you please tell me why you didn't show up at the high school today? You were scheduled to cover a science class.

Anne: Well, that's news to me. I didn't have that date on my schedule.

SS: Well, it's on my schedule, and I never make mistakes! And they're very angry at you at the high school, because they had no teacher for a busy classroom.

(Long pause as she waits for me to grovel.)

Anne: I have no record of being asked to come to the high school today. But I can understand why they would be angry. I would certainly understand if they didn't want to employ me anymore. They are, of course, under no obligation to use me as a substitute teacher.

SS: Well, we'd like to remove you from the list, yes indeed, but we're having trouble finding substitutes, and beggars can't be choosers.

Anne: What a lovely sentiment! As a matter of fact, I won't be available again until after Christmas anyway.

(Anne returns telephone to its cradle.)

Soon after Christmas, I return to the Vo-Tech.

I'll admit that I'm getting a tad forgetful as I drift into my prime years of life. But as the bored gods are my witnesses, I did not make any plan to be at Snobville High on Monday, December 10, 2007. In fact, the same loathsome scheduler spent part of Friday evening attempting to lure me back to Truman C. Tewell Elementary on Monday. I wish I'd recalled that when she was on the phone, but it wasn't until I hung up that I remembered. Which bolsters her case, I guess.

When all is said and done, it's pretty pathetic that I can't even make a few bucks substitute teaching. I'm wondering if I could even cut it flipping burgers at McDonald's. I'd probably shove someone into the boiling french fry oil on my second outing.

A day may soon be coming when I have to put that last part to the test.

But that's enough bad news! Ack, phooey. It's only money, right?

The Good News:

You might remember that my friends at Woodstock Trading Company gathered in a really young kitten from their crawlspace in early November. I fostered the lil' guy until he was old enough to go live in the wonderful store, where it is always 1972, except no pipes.

Kitten has been at Woodstock for two weeks and is groovin' on it, yeah baby.

Anne got some kitten medicine from the animal shelter where she volunteers. Ergo, the owners of Woodstock Trading Company have given a hefty donation to the animal shelter.

Woodstock Trading Company has put up a donation jar for the animal shelter.

Woodstock's owners are handing out fliers for the animal shelter to all the handsome young adults who prowl through the store looking for Steely Dan t-shirts.

So the kitten is happy, the store owners are happy, and a crowded animal shelter will be a little more merry and bright for the holidays.

Doing good never pays you money, but this afternoon I'm sitting here unemployed but feeling ... okay. Some bored goddess is going to look kindly upon me in the Great Hereafter. I'd bet the farm on it. And I really do have a farm. Sort of. A piece of a piece o' nuthin farm.

In the interest of further spreading cheer, I kindly direct all of you to Woodstock Trading Company, where you can order Steely Dan t-shirts online. Or Velvet Underground. Or Moody Blues. Or the store's clear preference, The Grateful Dead.

Do you remember those dudes? You do? Then you must be like me -- unsure which butt cheek you were just resting your weight on a minute ago.

What a long, strange trip it's been!

FROM ANNE

THE MERLIN OF BERKELEY SPRINGS

Cat Blogging: The Incredibly Awesome Adventure of Willoughby the Kitten

One of the Johnson family's favorite hangouts is Woodstock Trading Company in Cherry Hill, New (and Used) Jersey.

One of my regular commenters, a blighter named KD, once said he wished it could be 1970 again. Well, KD, you just need to open the door to Woodstock, and there you are. The clock stopped there around 1972 and has never started up again. Please note that they do not sell pipes, never have, honestly. That's what it says on their door. But if you have a craving for any other kind of legal merchandise from the Summer of Love era, you have found your store.

Four weekends ago, the staff of Woodstock heard dramatic caterwauling from the crawlspace below their hippie dippy showroom. At no small amount of effort, they penetrated into the crawlspace and extracted a kitten, about 2 weeks in age. It had been there, screaming, for two days.

Just as they were standing there wondering what the heck to do with such a small kitten, in walks ... moi. Kitten foster extraordinaire.

Remember, we at "The Gods Are Bored" do not believe in coincidences.

Mr. Johnson phoned that he needed the car keys, so I had only a moment to grab the little shaver, promise to love and nurture him, and dash to the good ol' homestead.

Said kitten, given the provisional name of Willoughby, will return to Woodstock Trading Company tomorrow to take up permanent residence there. He is a spirited, thriving, purring, romping little bundle of joy. The staff can hardly wait to claim him. He has made four conjugal visits during which he's been lovingly received by all.

I'm particularly happy about this rescue because I frequently feel the need to return to 1972, so I go to Woodstock all the time. Goddess willing (and I think She is), I will be able to watch Willoughby grow and thrive! Always before this, my fosters have gone back to the animal shelter, and from there to homes -- I know not where. But this one is different. He's gonna be my forever kitten buddy!

If you want to see pictures of Willoughby, the Crawlspace Hippy Summer of Love Kitten, Woodstock Trading Company has a MySpace with 32 pictures of the feline already on display. Mind you, this cat is not yet 8 weeks old.

But we all know how that is, right? Everyone loves to take multiple baby pictures.